


blackberry

by prettybrilliantfunny



Category: Justified
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Smut, M/M, and then they have sex in the kitchen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 21:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybrilliantfunny/pseuds/prettybrilliantfunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim hadn’t been lying when he’d rattled off to Art all the things he was only fair-to-middling at.  But somehow he managed pancakes alright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blackberry

Tim hadn’t been lying when he’d rattled off to Art all the things he was only fair-to-middling at.  But somehow he managed pancakes alright.  The first couple weeks back from Iraq they were the only things he could cook without too much hassle (or sobriety).

He’d gotten really good a knowing just when to flip ‘em, the edges going all pock-marked and lifting just a bit off the skillet.  In one subtle move, he slid the spatula under, and in the next the pancake was tossed up.  He shifted the skillet out a bit to catch it, and it landed gooey side down.

It was the beer that made them nice and fluffy.  A half empty bottle was on the counter next to the mixing bowl; something dark Rachel had left last time she was over for pizza.

He was making his way steadily through the batter, adding more stout here and there when he thought it was necessary, when Raylan finally shuffled in out of the hall.  He was still in the undershirt and boxers he’d eventually fallen asleep in, shucking his clothes in the open space by the dresser before crawling into bed a quarter after two.

Tim watched him, turning the pancakes over without fanfare now, as Raylan butt in, making a helluva lot a noise for one person.  He pulled the bacon out of the fridge half-asleep, and when he turned Tim was just looking at him with that familiar face; eyebrow raised and slender mouth just shy of amused and unreadable.

“I can handle _bacon_ ,” Raylan quipped, his accent in fully sleepy force.

Tim just went back to pouring pancakes, as if to say “yeah, okay,” with nothing more than a quick twitch of his lips.

Raylan muscled in next to him, crowding his space at the stovetop.  Tim’s kitchen wasn’t small, but the sniper didn’t shift so much as an inch, and their elbows bumped as another pan squeaked across its burner.

“If you burn me,” said Tim, “I’m gonna be less generous with these here pancakes.”

Raylan ignored him.  Or at least, he put on a good show of it – fiddling with the dials til another burner flared up – but he was smiling.

Reaching around Tim, who leaned back just enough to allow it, Raylan picked up the bottle of stout and took a pull, mouth stretching into a smile around it when Tim just sighed. 

“Coffee’s in the pot.”

Tim turned another pancake onto the already loaded plate, rhythm unbroken by Raylan’s off-centre orbit around his normally-ordered life.  Raylan flicked the condensation from his fingertips into the pan until it made a satisfying sizzle, then peeled strips of bacon away and laid them three along in the shallow pan.

He poured himself a cup of coffee, pot clinking noisily against the lip of a marshal’s service mug Tim had clearly stolen from the office, then stepped easily back into Tim’s personal space.  His hair was falling loose across his forehead and there were still pillow lines at his temple, but the coffee seemed to revive him. He eyed Tim over the mug—taking in his loose jeans and t-shirt—with clear disapproval.

Tim sucked his teeth, dismissing the urge respond, and said nothing; Raylan seemed amused regardless.

Of course, Raylan liked to turn the bacon with his bare hands, like an asshole.  Mindful of Tim’s proximity even as he did it, he went through six pieces the same way—pinching the end between his fingertips and yelping as he tried to flip each strip as quickly as he could. 

Oddly enough, it was that—Raylan’s attempts at a bacon quick draw—that finally tricked a smile out of Tim.

Raylan glanced over at him, sucking on his fingers, and Tim indulged him, flipping a pancake into the air and catching it again. 

With a smirk, Raylan’s hand crept for Tim’s waist, but the blonde’s eyes dropped to the stove.  “Bacon’s burning.”

“Shit.” Raylan threw his hand into the pan and yanked out the crisped-over strips, practically throwing them onto the plate. Most slid right off onto the counter, popping grease, and he shook his smarting fingers.  “Shit,” he said again.

“I’m cooking with a ten year old,” said Tim.  It was a practiced exasperation that Raylan chose to interpret as fondness.  All the more so because it was followed by a soft move of hip-into-hip, nudging Raylan away from the stove.  It was fluid, the slide Tim made, switching burners and unloading the last of the pancakes before taking on the last of the bacon.  Raylan accepted the clear dismissal and went to run his fingers under the tap, his hand ghosting across the curve of Tim’s lower back.

It was Tim then who finished dishing up their breakfast, crowding the small kitchen table with food in the insufficient space between plates and jars.  The pancakes were golden and thick, while the bacon was only a bit scorched on the ends.  And since it was bacon, there really wasn’t any way to ruin it.  Raylan brought over their coffees, careful of his singed fingers, and sat down heavily in his usual chair.  (He might have been frowning at the bacon, but that was okay.  Tim liked his bacon burnt anyhow.)

As a rule Raylan talked up enough of a ruckus for the pair of them, his particular charm coming in somewhere between all them words and his ability to pull off a Stetson of all things—while Tim slipped along in his wake, his dry sarcasm slipping in at just the right moment to catch Art and Rachel by surprise.  And making Raylan damn near crazy about him.

But some times, mostly in the early mornings—when they were unlucky enough to pull transport duty, or when an op ran so late there wasn’t much point in going to bed at all—it was Tim who led the talking (in his own fashion) and Raylan was only too happy to follow.

“Isn’t there something out there, says burnt bacon give you cancer?”

Raylan raised an eyebrow. “I think that’s toast.”

Tim had already reached over to hunt out the truly burnt pieces from the pile.  He wanted to eat them first—while they were still warm, as well as crunchy.

“No, I was pretty sure it was bacon,” he insisted, sucking grease from his fingers.

“Either way it’s bull.”

The bacon crunched loudly as Tim chewed, settled back in his chair like he was on some country porch—and Raylan narrowed his eyes.

“Are you messing with me?”

Tim smirked. “How are your legs so goddamn long?” he asked, knocking his bare feet against Raylan’s shins.  So Raylan stretched his legs out farther, taking up the whole of the space beneath the table.

“Just lucky I guess.”

And Tim didn’t say anything when Raylan hooked the bottom rung of his chair and dragged him closer to the table; expression hidden in his coffee cup.

He’d regained control of his face when he set his drink aside and grabbed a few pancakes off the top.  Breakfast was usually a pretty straightforward affair—even on lazy Saturdays like this.

 

Tim slathered his pancake with butter, nudging the jam bottle with the back of his hand when Raylan snapped for it (his mouth full of bacon).  He hadn’t bothered putting out syrup—that was waffles.  Besides, Raylan preferred jam and Tim avoided the mess.  No fuss, no muss, no utensils needed.  After all those months in Iraq living off of MREs, he’d learned to do without whenever possible.

He’d no sooner rolled up his pancake than he was stuffing practically the whole thing into his mouth, chewing contentedly. 

Raylan iced his pancakes with blackberry jam, sure even strokes of his knife before angling out a bite with the side of his fork.  It was halfway to his mouth when he caught sight of Tim’s face, and snorted, his eyes crinkling at the corners.  He stayed there, fork half-lifted while Tim did it again: wrapping his pancake around half a stick of butter and taking a hefty bite.

“Did’you want some pancake with that butter?” asked Raylan, smirking.

Tim polished off the second half of his pancake burrito.  “Naw. I’m good.”  He mouthed at a line of melted butter that had dripped down the side of his thumb, and Raylan’s eyes stuttered over the sight before he resolutely returned to eating.

“Still so damned skinny,” he muttered around a mouthful of jam.

It was while Raylan was still grumbling to himself, one hand curled protectively around his coffee cup while the other made vicious stabs with his fork, that Tim leaned over and swiped his pancake through the spill of jam across Raylan’s plate.

“You were out late,” he commented. 

Raylan tensed automatically—but unlike Winona, there wasn’t a trace of reprimand or suspicion in Tim’s voice; only mild curiosity.  He relaxed again, warmth spooling out from just below his ribs.

“Shot someone.”

Tim licked jam from his lips.

“Again?”

Raylan grunted in the affirmative, then pulled his plate back just as Tim reached for it again.  Tim paused, tongue behind his teeth, and Raylan raised both eyebrows.

“That’s how it’s gonna go?” Tim asked pointedly.

“Maybe.”

But he was already pushing his plate back towards the center; deciding he’d had his fill and reaching for the bacon instead.  Tim’s mouth moved like he might have smiled, before it settled back into its usually tight-pressed amusement. Raylan envied the man’s poker face.

“They dead?”

“Not when I left ‘em.”

Tim hummed around another mouthful of pancake.  (How many was that now?) “I’m impressed by your restraint,” he enunciated carefully; the mockery so evident that Raylan didn’t bother rising to the jab.  And after a moment, Tim resettled, slotting his legs between Raylan’s, the soft denim of his jeans riding up where he hooked his ankles around his.

“Less paperwork.” Raylan smiled around the last piece of bacon.

Tim rolled his eyes.  “You telling me you actually do your paperwork?”

“I was hoping you’d do it.”

A slow blink and Tim swirled his cooling coffee.  “Why the hell would I do that?”

“In exchange for sexual favors?”

Tim snorted; his legs a warm promise between Raylan’s as he shifted—reminding Raylan of their presence, and just who was chasing whom. 

“I’ll pass,” he murmured, draining the rest of his coffee.  Want flared like a firecracker in Raylan’s gut, sudden and heavy.  Tim must have sensed it too—the asshole—because his mouth twitched again, and he abruptly pushed back from the table.

“I’m going for a run,” he announced, disentangling their feet and standing up.

Raylan wasn’t put out; instead, he watched Tim’s back as he moved the dishes to the sink, his cheek propped lazily in his palm.

“If it’s exercise you’re looking for…”

Tim looked over his shoulder at him, managing to look both incredulous _and_ unimpressed.  Raylan leered.

“ _Really?_ That’s the line you’re going with.”

He’d already gotten to his feet too, but Raylan had the indecency to look offended.  “Nothing wrong with a little afternoon delight.”

And god the smile that pulled from Tim.  “It’s 8 in the morning,” the younger man said—like he had no idea his face was going all soft around the edges, like Raylan hadn’t already won this particular discussion.

“It’s 3pm somewhere,” Raylan offered; knowing he’d done something to pull that look out of him, but no clue what.  Most days he just blundered into it like some asshole teenager, but Tim didn’t seem to mind.

He backed Tim up to the counter, shamelessly taking advantage of his height to make Tim look up at him.  “Thanks,” the sniper drawled, “but I’d actually like to break a sweat—“

“ _God_ , you’re an asshole.”

 

 

Raylan kissed him, annoyed and fond and quick, palms pressing his hips back into the counter even as Tim surged instinctively forward.  He tasted like coffee and morning and _Tim_ ; which meant he tasted like sharpness, the cool edge of glass.  He grabbed the back of Raylan’s neck and changed the angle to a bruise, and Raylan lost the slow burn to a fever.

“Fuck,” he cursed, heady with the rush of white-hot want.  Tim’s neck was a long line as they broke apart and Raylan ducked his head to burn his mouth along it.

Tim’s head fell back, hitting the cabinets, but his swearing was all for Raylan, the graze of his teeth across too-sensitive skin.  “ _Shit_ , Raylan—“ fingers tightened on his waist and he jerked forward, bringing their hips together.  “Kitchen—kitchen, Raylan.”

“Yeah,” Raylan mumbled, only half-listening.  “Yeah.” Then he remembered Tim had a mouth—a mouth hot and swearing for him—and he pulled his face back down so he could kiss it again, press those lips open and soften their sharpness into warmth and desire.

“Fuck— _that mouth_ ,” he groaned, almost to himself—but Tim laughed breathless into the burn of his mouth and, _fuck_ , that was even worse, but Tim held him there—his hand on his neck still.  They were pressed flush against each other, but it wasn’t enough.  Raylan fumbled for the underside of the cupboards, grabbing the edge for leverage, and when he snapped forward he saw stars, drinking in Tim’s ragged breathing like it was all that was keeping him conscious.

They rocked against each other like they were fucking teenagers and it was agonizing and perfect and the counter creaked in protest as they moved.  The rough drag of denim was just what he wanted and Raylan chased the delicious friction—knowing it had to be torture for Tim—angling towards the electric shock and the desperate sounds Tim couldn’t keep behind clenched teeth.  Tim’s cheeks were flushed to a high pink and he’d squeezed his eyes shut, like it was taking everything just to keep breathing.

Raylan pressed his forehead to Tim’s and breathed his name across the damp curve of his mouth.  Tim’s eyes fluttered open—unfocused and almost entirely swallowed by blue.  Raylan smiled.  He dragged up slow and steady, and watched Tim’s eyes roll back. 

Tim gave up on any sense of keeping balance then and grabbed Raylan’s ass, grinding them together just shy of painful.  That was it for Raylan.  They pushed and rocked with renewed leverage and he came with his hand fisted in Tim’s hair, slamming him back hard enough to rattle the cabinets.

Raylan regained himself like a drunk man; too-aware of his own heavy breathing, the sweat on the back of his neck.  He slowly released the cupboard behind Tim, his fingers aching from strain; his other hand was still holding Tim’s face.  He slid his thumb along the pink rise of his cheek.

Tim let out a short huff of air; a little like laughter, a little like something painful.  He’d let his head tip back again and he was looking up at the ceiling without really seeing.

Raylan reached for his zipper. 

Tim tried to protest, his hand flying to Raylan’s shoulder—presumably to try and push him back—but Raylan had already dragged his jeans down just enough.  He wrapped his hand around his cock and Tim let out a strangled sound.  Raylan gave him one slow stroke and Tim’s hand softened to a curl over his shoulder.

He was half a mess already and there was enough slick to ease the burn of Raylan’s palm.  Tim was trembling, the muscles in his jaw tense and flickering as he clenched his teeth.  Raylan’s breath was a huff of laughter, and even though his wrist wouldn’t forgive him tomorrow, he moved closer so he could press his mouth to the space just below Tim’s ear.  His neck was rubbed red from the burn of Raylan’s stubble; he ran his tongue along it just to feel the hitch in Tim’s breath.

He wasn’t disappointed, but it came with a warning—Tim’s thumb pressing sharp and painful above his collarbone.  There’d be a bruise tomorrow.  He pulled back to meet Tim’s flushed glare.

“Just ‘cause you came in your shorts like a damn kid—“

Raylan cut him off with a sharp pull; savoring Tim’s sudden hiss of air. 

“Fair’s fair.”  He slid his mouth across Tim’s in spite of his glare, licking his way into that scowling slant of lips.  Tim bit him.

Laughing, Raylan sped up, drawing out the soft pants of sound Tim couldn’t hold in.  Raylan sealed them in his throat, slotted his mouth over Tim’s and kept them for himself, biting back when Tim’s body shuddered under his. 

Raylan slowly withdrew his hand.  He dragged his palm across the thigh of Tim’s jeans, drawing a half-hearted sound of protest from Tim, but it hardly made a difference now.  Their kiss righted itself from the sloppy rush of release to a lazy moving of mouths and, without really thinking about it, Tim’s hand had slipped under the hem of Raylan’s undershirt and was moving in small, warm circles along his side.

 

 

Tim’s eyes opened slow; content, if only for that moment, to lose a whole morning to the pleasant curve of Raylan’s mouth.

“Now who’s the asshole?” It wasn’t a question, but Raylan lit up like a goddamn lightning bug.

“You’ll drive me crazy sweet-talkin’ like that,” he said. Tim rolled his eyes and pushed him back enough that he could do up his jeans again.  But his face was still soft at the edges.

“We _eat_ here, Raylan.”

But Raylan was anything but cowed, and while he definitely needed a shower at some point in the near future, for now he just strolled back to the table and picked up his forgotten mug for a swig of cold coffee, looking pleased as punch. 

 

“ _Yes we do_.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
